


Dropped Stitches

by Letter_from_the_refuge



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Dutchy takes over the lodge house, Gen, Gift Fic, Sick Fic, Skittery and Tumbler are brothers, gambling tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letter_from_the_refuge/pseuds/Letter_from_the_refuge
Summary: My gift for Randomness-1964 for Newsies Winter Holiday Exchange 2020!Their prompts were “Dutchy getting sick and Specs doing stupid stuff to make him feel better” and “Tumbler getting scared about something and Skittery being a good big brother,” and I tried to write both of them into this!Dutchy and Specs are stuck at the lodge house, home sick, and bored beyond belief. Specs continually tries and fails to be entertaining, and makes a bet that he can get Dutchy to laugh before the end of the day. Tumbler soon joins them, followed by many others, but a storm is brewing, and Skittery is out missing! Jack looses his record for selling the most papes in one day, and Kloppman has a gift for everyone.
Relationships: Dutchy & Specs (Newsies), Skittery & Tumbler (Newsies)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Dropped Stitches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Randomness-1964](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Randomness-1964).



> Racing Demon is the card game now popularly known as Dutch Blitz. War is the same card game known outside of the US as Battle. I learned far, far more than I’ll ever need to know about card game history just in researching for this fic, oops. Enjoy!

“When it’s time to wake up, you gotta wake up,” Kloppman shouts, entering the bunk room around 5 am, the same routine as every morning for the last 30 years, maybe more, he’d lost track of the time ages ago. He knocks on the foot of every bunk bed, making sure every Newsie is up and ready for work. In all reality, he was just their landlord, but he felt as though he should take care of them, treat them all like sons of his own. Half the boys practically were, they’ve grown from tiny tots to proper adults in the lodge house, and he was the closest to family most had ever known. 

Skittery slept closest to the door, followed by Jack Kelly, who were both groggy and reluctant enough to be the last out of bed. Everyone else had meandered slowly to the washroom. 

“Haha,” Tumbler pointed and laughed at Specs, washing his face in the sink across from him, “zit face!”  
“Eh, that ain’t very nice,” Mush elbowed the much younger child, “but he’s right, Specs, you might have a case of them polka dots.”  
“Polka dots? Nah. It’s called Small Pox!” Shouts Kid Blink.  
“Killed half the city last year,”chimes in Pie Eater.  
“I hears a newsie died and haunts this very room,” Racetrack adds, in total bluff, just trying to scare the kid.  
“Dutch has ‘em too,” Skittery points out.  
“Must ‘a been that poker game we was in last night, lost our money and our lives,” Specs explains.  
“Speak for yourself,” Dutchy defends, waving a dollar bill for everyone to see, “s’pose they should call this a poker face.”  
“Kloppman’ll never let youse outta the house, remember when we all got the flu?” Jack warns. They’d all been locked inside for a week when that went around. Not one of them could afford the board, but the old man had been kind enough not to charge anyone rent for days spent home sick. Sure, they all had to survive on cabbage soup for the month to make up the costs, but anything was better than nothing.  
“I got an idea,” Dutchy shouts, grabbing a pillowcase and tying it around his head to obscure his face.  
“That’ll never work,” Crutchy laughs, “you look like my Bubbie.”  
Crutchy was one of the few newsies whose family were still around. They’d kicked him out at age six when his medical bills became too much to afford, and whenever they see him on the street, the run the other direction out of shame, so he certainly remembers what she looks like. 

“Alright boys, sell ‘em good today! Sell the papes, carry the banner!” Kloppman encourages the boys as the walk single-file through the front door of the lodgehouse, counting heads to make sure everyone was accounted for, and to know how much food to make for supper.  
“Hold it. You’re not going anywhere,” he calls out as Specs attempts to run past, “You neither,” he motions toward Dutchy. Everyone else had made the cut, healthily on their way to the distribution centre, or so they thought.  
“Chicken Pox, if I ever saw it. You need your rest,” he speaks wisely, “but first, wash duty. I can’t have everyone else gettin’ sick.” The landlord hands Specs the bucket containing the washboard, and Dutchy the box of soap, as they make their way back upstairs. He can’t help but grin a bit at the fact that he wouldn’t have to do the work. 

Specs quickly realizes that the bucket and washboard make far better musical instruments than cleaning tools, and plays a snazzy jazzy melody. Rocking out certainly made the chores take longer, but it also made them far more fun, which, in the boys’ minds, was a happy compromise.  
Once the linens were washed and hung, and the floors all mopped to a shine, they finally sat down on two bunks opposite each other for a breather.  
“So what now,” Specs asks, clearly bored out of his mind, “can’t be half past seven?”  
“I’ve got an idea, you ever played Racing Demon?” He grabs a deck of cards off of the desk in the corner of the room and tosses it to his friend, taking his own deck out of his pocket. “It’s a game I learned on the boat over. Takes lots of space though,” Dutchy explains before sitting down on the floor in the middle of the aisle.  
“The goal is to play each deck to the Ace, whoever plays it claims that deck as their own. You start a new deck any time you have a seven. First one out looses.”  
“You’re on!”  
The game is fast-paced and fun, and the guys play round after round,until even it gets boring. Dutchy goes back to reading the English-Italian dictionary which he’s checked out of the library to help teach Itey a few more words after the selling day ends, while Specs deals out a game of solitaire. 

Soon after, they hear the old pine stairs creak as someone ascends.  
“Boys,” Kloppman calls from a few steps off of the ground, “I’m off to the market for supper. Door’s locked, don’t let anyone in until I get back. Get some rest and stay out of trouble!”  
The last remark blends into a shout, clearly implying it’s happened in the past.  
As soon as he’s heard the door latch, Dutchy speaks up once more:  
“You know, Specs, I been thinking. How’s come Mr. Kloppman calls us all by our first names, but we only know him as ‘Mister’?”  
“I bet it’s somethin’ funny, like Frederick, or Marion.”  
“I’ll bet it’s on one of those papers behind his desk.”  
“Only one way to find out.”  
They run downstairs to where Kloppman’s desk sits. It’s dark and old, the edges worn smooth by generations of newsboys before them. It’s clearly made of oak, to match the railings, the baseboards, and the set of cubbies hung behind it. The finish was long gone, and splinters were strewn amuck, hidden by a poorly-added layer of paint, but it was a good desk, and served its purpose.  
“Wonder what he’s got this for,” Specs asks, tossing a ball of muddy orange coloured cotton yarn from where he’s ducked down behind the desk, exploring the shelf beneath. Nothing else was of much interest: the log book everyone signs when they pay the night’s board, a small box of pencils, a sharpener, a singular ballpoint pen kept for cheques and special occasions. A rectangle of the top center shelf was left empty and discoloured, where the cash box should be if Kloppman were not out running errands. Dutchy catches the ball of yarn and tosses it right back, hitting him in the back.  
“Hey!” He half shouts, half laughs, throwing it back, violently. They hadn’t paid any attention to the trail of yarn now surrounding them across the floor, or the half-knit piece of fabric attached to the other end. The game goes on for a while, the yarn of mess ever-growing, until they hear the doorknob start to squeak.  
“Shit,” Dutchy panics, grabbing as much yarn as possible and tossing it back behind the desk, “he’s never less than an hour.”  
There’s a tapping at the window, and, much to his relief, Skittery had appeared on the stoop, with Tumbler in tow on his back.  
“C’mon, old man, the kid’s sick, let ‘im in,” the former shouts, a bit panicked and quite displeased. Dutchy agrees, and they storm through the door, Skittery setting his brother down in a hurry.  
“Am I going to die of the pox, too?” The smaller boy asks, visibly worried and woozie.  
“Not if you get your rest,” Skittery replies, placing a hand on his forehead, “You’re burning up,” he says, distraught, before regaining his composure, for the kids sake.  
“It’s alright, everything’s going to be okay,” he again assures him, “I’ve gotta sell his papers and mine, or we don’t eat. You two better take care of him,” he gives a distrusting look at Specs, behind the desk and covered in yarn, clearly making trouble; who had taught the kid every dirty word in the books last time he was in charge, but alas, the dreadfully responsible newsie had no choice.  
“See ya soon,” Skittery continues once more before rushing out the door.  
“Why don’t you go up to bed,” Dutchy suggests to Tumbler, directing him towards the stairs,  
“I’ll bring ya up some water in a while.”  
He watches as the younger boy hikes the staircase, and as soon as he’s out of sight, turns back to Specs, who had fixed the yarn and picked up the piece of knitting, which was nothing but a few indiscernible rows.  
“I wonder what he’s making?”  
“I can’t tell,” he sets it back where he found it, and turns to the cupboard behind the desk, starting to shuffle through the papers. Most of the slots were barren, as no one there ever got much mail, so it wasn’t a terrible task.  
“Bills, bills, more bills,” he quickly thumbs through them, each one only addressed to ‘Mr. Kloppman.’  
“Looky here, he kept every article we was in about the strike, guess he does care,” he sets them out on the desk for his pal to see, “here we go, the thing that says he owns the building,” he holds it up to the light, “E-lig-ah Walter Kloppman.”  
“El-ij-ah,” Dutchy laughs at his butchering of the name, convinced he had pronounced it any better.  
“Now, quick,” he continues, “put everything back before he comes back for real this time,” he coughs, getting worse but refusing to admit it, before heading towards the lodge house kitchen.  
It’s a small room, almost entirely taken up by shelves lined with a few dozen dishes, as they never knew how many people would be there for supper. There’s a large sink in the centre of the wall closest to the front door, and a black, iron, wood-burning stove on the opposite; currently cold. He fetches two glasses of water, one for himself and one for Tumbler, before walking back upstairs, soon followed by Specs. The boy appreciates the water, but is still growing weaker. Dutchy nearly falls on his way across the room.  
“Woah there, you might want to sit down,” observes Specs. He’s not nearly as sick as the others, and had decided he should do what he does best: entertain them. He stands in the center aisle of the room and pretends to be a stand-up comedian.  
“So I been thinkin’ lately, how’s come we gotta shout about our papers to sell ‘em, even though they’s quiet, while those mimes on Sixth make plenty o’ tips being quiet? They should have to be all,” he holds his hands up with his palms out in front of him, mimicking a mime trapped in a glass box, and shouts, “Mime! I’m a mime!”  
Tumbler laughs with glee, but Dutchy merely shakes his head at the terrible display of humour.  
“I got another,” Specs reassures them, trying to win the audience yet. “So how’s come they call it chicken pox? It ain’t like I’m gonna turn into a—“ he freezes, wide eyed, and holds his elbows out like wings, as he to make chicken noises.  
“Bawk, ba-gawk!”  
Again, Tumbler chortles and guffaws, but Dutchy gives no more than half a grin.  
“Tough crowd,” Specs shrugs, “I know, I’ll bet ya…” he digs through his pocket for coins, “...three cents,” he holds as many pennies out on his palm, “I’ll bet ya three cents I can get you to laugh by the end of the night.”  
“You’re on!” Dutchy smiles and shakes on it. At least in Specs’ mind, a tough bet like that was a great idea for keeping being sick off their minds. Besides, he’s made his best friend laugh every day for more years than he can count, he was sure to crack him up somehow.  
“So, how’s about that free church food?”  
Dutchy just shakes his head and yawns.

Tumbler had fallen asleep for a nap, and Specs where he sat, by the time there was another knock at the lodge house door. Dutchy begrudgingly trudged down the steps, remembering Kloppman’s warning not to open it.  
“C’mon, Mr. K, we know you’re in there,” he can hear Mush shout from the step as the glass windows rattle in their frame. There’s quite a bit of indistinguishable bickering to follow. Dutchy sighs and opens the door.  
“I can keep goin’ just fine,” Kid Blink protests, interrupted by his own getting sick on the sidewalk. “I done it before, I’ll do it again.”  
“You can hardly walk,” Mush pushes him through the door. “No one wants to buy papes from someone throwin’ up on ‘em. Go sit down, I got the pape’s.”  
“‘Kay, your allowed in, but, er,” Dutchy heads back behind the desk, and pulls out the nightly log book, setting it on the tabletop alongside a pencil, “gotta keep track, he said to keep the door shut,” he motions for Blink to sign in and leave the nights dime.  
“How’s I know you ain’t gonna pocket it?” the young man squints suspiciously with his one good eye.  
“It’s goin’ behind the counter, no one else is coming in.”  
This is sadly not true, as over the next hour, plenty more of their friends walked home ill. Jake was next, followed by Swifty and Pie-Eater, each in worse shape than the last. Dutchy was possibly the sickest of all, but between coughs, he kept the records in order, and made sure everyone was accounted for. To make matters worse, it began to rain outside, steadily getting worse as the day went on. 

“It ain’t fair, ya know, how fakin’ sick sells ya more papes, but gettin’ sick for real sells ya none at all,” Crutchy was complaining through watery eyes with unwavering confidence, when, at long last, Mr. Kloppman returned, confused and a bit upset, carrying a basket filled with cabbages, celery, and one whole chicken.  
“I thought I told you to keep the door shut?” He asks Dutchy, an accusatory tone in his voice.  
“We was knocking at the door, askin’ ‘im to let us in sick, honest,” Crutchy defends.  
“I couldn’t leave everyone out there sick in the rain,” Dutchy shrugs nonchalantly, before holding out the log book for the innkeeper to read,  
“Kept track of everyone for you, even have the dimes.”  
“Well, well…,” he doesn’t quite smile, but he isn’t not smiling either, and nods his head in appreciation,  
“S’pose you could keep this place runnin’ for me after all. But you shoulda had the day off work. Go ahead and rest up,” he motions toward the staircase with his head, “I can take it from here.”

The bunk room is looking more like a hospital ward by the time he returns, occupied by seven newsies who should never be home in the middle of the afternoon. Specs has found his new calling in entertainment, and is standing in the aisle once again. When Dutchy walks past, his friend quickly fans out an array of playing cards.  
“Pick a card, any card,” Specs asks, facing the crowd and speaking to them more so than Dutchy himself.  
He rolls his eyes but picks a card anyways.  
“Show the idiots,” the “magician” in question doesn’t mean to be rude, but never quite understood the word “audience.”  
He reluctantly waved the queen of hearts above his head for all the world to see.  
“Set it back,” Specs asks and Dutchy obliges, before shuffling the cards through the air at break-neck speeds with a smile of bravado.  
“Is this your card?”  
“No. Is it behind my ear?”  
“Gentlemen, what a guess!” He mimics surprise, following it with a scoff breaching through the disguise of irony, pretending to pull the correct card from behind Dutchy’s ear. Tumblr and Crutchy applaud enthusiastically as they both bow. Snitch, latest to arrive, throws a pillow over his ear in distaste at the noise.  
“Tough crowd,” Specs shrugs. “I been learnin’ yo-yo tricks, you want to see some of them?” He’s really struggling to feign his happy-go-lucky, nonchalant air of confidence in light of the negative reaction, but cannot stand to stare at the wall all day and won’t allow the others to either. He’s fidgety at best and constantly distracted, so trying to keep the boys’ attention was a game right up his alley. (Sadly, this was an age long before modern mental health care was accessible to street urchins.)  
The yo-yo is little more than a battered wooden spool attached to a bootlace, but it was one of the least necessary items belonging to anyone in the home, and therefore made him look like a high roller: inspirational to some, and excessive to the rest. He passes the toy back and forth between his hands, before quickly escalating to spinning it in circles, faster and faster in all directions, which ends precisely how one would expect it to: the yo-yo flies off its string, full force across the room faster than anyone can run. It’s quite an astonishing feat, and brings shouts of joy and laughter forth from the crowd. The smile returns to Specs’ face, grin broadening with the crowd’s validation.  
“Good one, eh?” Pie-Eater teases.  
“Why I outta..” the class clown lunges forward in counter strike, but Dutchy throws an arm out to stop the fight what was brewing, to no avail.  
“Outta what? You’re all bark and no bite,” Pie-Eater jeers. That was the last straw. Specs grabs his pillow and throws it full-force towards the other, who’s already started to laugh.  
An all out pillow fight ensues across the room, feathers flying and no effort held back. There are few things more fun when living with 23 of your best friends and competitors; this is one of them.  
“This is war!” Tumbler shrieks, running across the room with a pillow raised above his head, smashing it directly into Specs’ face.  
“Hey, wouldn’t it be better our side versus there’s?” the latter hunches down, planing plays like a football coach.  
“Yeah, yeah!” Tumbler agrees, throwing his pillow across the aisle towards Crutchy, but instead it flys directly past him. He picks it up and throws it back over, laughing and having fun.  
“If you’re up there playing, you should be out selling!” Kloppman shouts up the stairs, heard by approximately no one. He shakes his head and smiles, remembering days of his own youth spent in that very room.  
There’s one thing held in common by every newsie, a truth that rings through in their very motto of, “kill the competition, sell the next addition,”; they are extremely competitive, and despite their comradery, know how to live every-man-for-himself. The pillow fight rages on for an hour, until at last even Tumbler was too tired to continue.  
It wasn’t long before the majority of the others made it back to Duane Street for the night. Even Racetrack Higgins, known throughout the entire city for staying out late gambling, usually the last man home, drudged through the door by eight, not wanting to freeze in the snow a minute longer than he had to.  
Kloppman rings the dinner bell, and the boys pour into the dinner hall. Two long wooden tables run the span of the room, with matching benches on either side. The outside wall is bare cement brick foundation, with a large fireplace formed in the center, keeping the building nice and warm. Above the fire hangs a large soup pot, and a line forms as Mr. Kloppman dishes out a serving for everyone.  
“This’ll fix you right up, there ain’t no better medicine around.”  
He notices that Jack and Skittery are both absent, assumes they’re out making trouble, and sighs, knowing he has to wait up to keep the door unlocked.  
Tumbler, terrified of the weather, and scared even more so that Skittery is still out in it, looks more anxious than ever as he sits at the table.  
“Say, kid,” Specs pats him on the shoulder before setting his bowl down next to him,  
“Why’d the chicken cross the road?”  
Tumbler just looks up at him, silent and startled. Dutchy joins the act without missing a beat, replying between sniffles,  
“Gee, I dunno, Specs, why did the chicken cross the road?”  
“He didn’t,” the answer is deadpan and abrupt, pointing at their steaming supper, he continues, “he’s in the soup.”  
Poor Tumbler is horrified.  
Dutchy cannot contain his laughter. He is amused beyond belief, tears are shed. His laughter soon gets the rest of the room laughing, whether they heard the joke or not, but once a herd starts laughing it cannot be stopped. Somewhere down the table Mush echoes, “Ya hear that? He says, “the chicken’s in the soup!”  
The mood lifts breathably cheerier. Even Tumbler starts to smile. Dutchy drops his three pennies in Specs’ hand, nodding to acknowledge the bet. Though the weather is terrible, and being sick is no fun, the fire is warm and the friends are many. Could there be a better way to spend an evening?  
The jolly crew of misfits wash their dishes and head up for bed. Late nights aren’t really an option when work starts every morning at five, but that’s simply life for the newsies, they’ve never known otherwise.  
Mr. Kloppman looks out one last time for any stragglers before he locks the door. It wasn’t like Skittery to leave his brother there alone for so long.  
Lightning strikes and hail thuds across the windows. No one is very fond of it- some, like Boots, who lived on the street for a few years, remember what it’s like to be outside, and are reminded of how grateful they are to be out of the wet (although the roof does leak in a few places) and cold, yet — everyone is annoyed at the sound. Glass windows rattling in their frames make an enormous ruckus of clatter as well. Even some of the more seasoned sellers are light sleepers; Racetrack is used to being woken up by coppers patrolling the streets and having to run from a trip to the refuge, a standard for anyone frequently left to sleep on the sidewalk.  
Tumbler stands awake, watching out the window, nearly coughing his lungs out.  
“Get some sleep. I’ll help you find him tomorrow,” Dutchy walks over to console the kid, resting a hand on his shoulder, “It’ll all be alright.”  
In all honesty, he isn’t sure of that; living on the street is tough, and when kids go missing, they don’t always make it back. Everything logical in his brain is saying that frostbite could have killed Skittery by now, but maybe he should just let the boy hope for a while longer, even if it is just to get him to calm down. He yawns and climbs up to his bunk, staring at the ceiling with worry himself: What if he never does come back? How do we explain it to him? Tumbler’ll run away, and he won’t survive this weather either. How long do I keep lying and let him hope? There’s no end to his worry.  
Just as soon as everyone has drifted off to sleep, the loudest noise of all shatters through the silence: kicking the frozen-over window free from its frame out on the fire escape are two figures, unrecognizable in the dark and buried in thick coats of ice and snow. Threatened, Mush jumps to the floor, ready to throw arms with the intruders. Everyone else is smart enough to realize it’s probably one of their own, it’s not odd for someone to try to sneak past the desk. Even the lowly landlord hears, but decides not to bother: he’ll make anyone who didn’t sign in pay in the morning. 

Soon enough, Jack and Skittery are at long last sneaking through the window, looking like snowmen. Tumbler darts up and gasps, glad he’s finally home.  
“Two hundred papes,” Skittery moans, sounding ill, “two hundred papers in one day.”  
“Hey!” Tumbler interrupts, doing his best to disguise how much he’s missed the other in his voice and failing miserably, “I sold five of ‘em!”  
He starts coughing again, and the reason he stayed home is clear once again.  
“Alright, one, one, uh,” Skittery puts his hand on his aching head, and nods it back and forth, giving up on the math.  
“One ninety five!” Race shouts from his place, holding his pillow over his ears in a failed attempt at sleep. Who knew, there’s no better math teacher than gambling large sums of money.  
“Les seen his ma out shoppin’ for celery,” Jack spits out, “Tells her we all got the plague,” his eyes have never had a greater aura of cold hard death. “She threw a fit,” he sniffles, “took him and David home, says they ain’t allowed out no more this week. I got stuck with all 200 papes.”  
“They had t’ sell somethin’ first,” Skittery accuses of him.  
“Davey was with me the whole time, we’d barely left the gates.”  
“And Les?”  
“He, uh, he mighta sold some, I dunno.”  
“Tomorrow we ask im’. First thing. Record for most papes is mine.”  
“Would you please SHUT UP? We’s trying to SLEEP here!” Specs shouts, annoyed beyond belief.  
Skittery and Jack share one final glare at each other over the record and call it a night. 

While the storm had subsided before sunrise, the snow certainly hadn’t. Anyone well enough runs out the front door of the lodging house, gliding across the ice, throwing snowballs cross the way, despite knowing full well they don’t have spare clothes for when the snow melts. Jack and Skittery, however, had a mission in store - to sneak out of their fire escape, run a few blocks, sneak up to the Jacobs’ fire escape, ask Les, find out who sold the most papers after all, cross town, and sneak back into the lodgehouse.  
Clearly, it takes no judgement, nor hesitation- out the window they climb, clamouring to be first to the ground

“Last one there’s a rotten egg!” Jack shouts, sprinting down the street. He only slows a bit when distracted by the horse wagon, which is unusual for him, as he almost always stops to greet the kind and gentle creatures. A familiar Palomino whinnies as he rushes past her, vying for his attention. But today Cowboy Kelly is sick, tired, and cold - altogether, he’s feeling much more like Francis Sullivan today than the happy-go-lucky Jack Kelly we’re used to. Skittery narrowly beats him to the ladder, making it one rung up before Jack shouts up at him.  
“What a’ ya’ doin’, Skitts? They ain’t gonna answer for you.”  
He shrugs and steps back down. 

“Jack! Get out of here, or my mom will kill us both!” David whispers exasperatingly at the knock on the kids’ bedroom window.  
“I’ll be real quick, I just need to ask Les somethin’.”  
“Fine.”  
“Hey Jack,” Les steps up to the window, while David keeps watch behind him. “What ‘a ya’ want?”  
“How many papes did you sell yesterday?” Jack has never been more serious in his life, and his tone reflects this.  
“I dunno, like, five?”  
“You sure?”  
“No, uhm, let’s see- the woman in green bought one first, then the tall rich guy, oh! And the man from Tibby’s bought five for his tables. Seven.”  
“You damn sure this time?” Jack sounds even more intense.  
“Watch your language!” David is already panicking about Hanukkah service that night, the extra stress from trying to hide the fact that Jack is there is sending him spiralling.  
“Seven, I’m certain!” Les smiles, a bit confused at what’s going on.  
“Right. See ya!” Jack shuts the window and skips a few steps on his way to the ground.  
“Seven,” he grovels to Skittery, looking quite disappointed.  
“That means..,” he’s astonished, “that means I won. I sold more papes than anyone in the history of the world,” Skittery genuinely smiles, beaming with all of the pride he’s stolen from Jack.  
Their walk home is fairly uneventful. 

“You’re getting snow all over the floor,” Specs grumbles as Jack trudges through the window. Tumbler, Bumlets, Crutchy, and Snipeshooter are playing a quiet game of jacks in one corner of the room, while Specs and Dutchy are in the midst of an intense game of War, and most of the others are enjoying sleeping in; all warm and dry inside, while Jack froze half to death outside; he is very bitter.  
“What’s it to ya? Snow never hurt nobody.”  
“Guess who’s in charge around here now?” Skittery calls cheerily, closing the window behind him.  
“Someone who knows that we have a front door?” Dutchy calls.  
“I outsold Jack’s record,” Skittery claims with pride,”  
“No way, he sold one eighty in a day!” Crutchy doesn’t care to here the news.  
“One hundred and ninety five.”  
Tumbler claps, though no one else joins in. “I knew you could do it!”  
“Ya won on a technicality!” Jack defends, “It was two more lousy papers. I didn’t have that many to begin with. Rematch, tomorrow.”  
“No. I don’t feel like it,” Skittery kicks his feet up. 

That night at supper, when everyone was home and accounted for, Mr. Kloppman told everyone to sit and wait.  
“It’s getting colder outside,” he tells them, “so, I thought, maybe you boys deserve something nice. Keep ya warm,” he goes to his office, and brings back a heaping pile of sweaters, then another, then another, starting to pass them around. The sweaters aren’t perfect; they’ve all been made from ugly colours of yarn, left behind in the shops and sold for cheap. Knitting twenty six sweaters in one year is no easy task, so they are all a bit rushed. They’ve got a few snags, dropped stitches here and there, but in that, they’re more like the Newsies than they are different; sure, they have their flaws and troubles, but they have heart. Each is unique, and has their own personality.  
Dutchy is thankful beyond words. Specs stands to clap, and the others join in; slowly at first, then all together. Tumbler runs over to give the old man a hug. Skittery shakes his hand, saying a “Thank you” almost inaudible over the crowd. Tumbler then gives him a hug as well, but Skittery just scraggles his hair around, glad to be back together. 

Soon enough, night has fallen, and sleep is both welcome and inevitable.  
“Wait a minute,” Specs shouts in the dark, ten minutes after they’d all gone quiet for the night.  
“That’s why they call it chicken pox, the chicken soup!”  
A pillow thuds onto his bunk, thrown violently from across the room, then another, then another.


End file.
